


Happy birthday, Illya

by DawnlitWaters



Series: Das kleine gelbe auto [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Illya teaches Gaby Russian, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, New York New York, U.N.C.L.E HQ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnlitWaters/pseuds/DawnlitWaters
Summary: Three things Illya receives on his birthday.





	Happy birthday, Illya

_New York, 1963_

They settle themselves into a little Italian bistro, a few blocks from _Del Floria’s_.

It had been a lot to take in.

Waverley had given them the tour. In some places the paint was still wet; in others the Bakelite telephones and lacquered filing cabinets had weathered into an institutional dreariness reminiscent of a 1940s US command bunker. Or, Napoleon thought privately, 1960s Russia.

 _The Masque Club_ had been a surprising, if somewhat surreal touch. Waverley had appeared to show it to them out of a sense of duty: covering the full roster of fire escapes, even if this was one he’d had foisted on him by Americans without a proper sense of decorum.

On the roof, they’d dutifully admired the helipad, while Waverley pointed out the plinth that would shortly house a state-of-the-art, weaponised laser beam.

He’d packed them off to the hotel, with promises of addresses and keys to more permanent accommodation in the next few days.

In the restaurant, the waiter places a stylishly guttering candle on the table, and fills their glasses. Napoleon lets out a long, steady breath.

“So…?”

Gaby reaches out a hand, picks up her glass, and proceeds to empty it.

“Not the worst idea, Teller, given that Uncle Waverley’s paying. He’s clearly a man of _considerable_ resources.”

“ _I_ am paying.”

Solo looks up, pausing in his perusal of the menu. Gaby lowers her glass.

Kuryakin shrugs, awkward.

“It is tradition.”

Solo glances sideways at Gaby, then back at Peril, who frowns.

“Funnelling wine into tiny German women?”

The frown deepens. Gaby kicks Napoleon, hard, under the table.

“No.”

Solo quirks his eyebrows at the Russian – _pity_.

Gaby sets down her glass like a challenge, a punctuation mark. Leans back in her chair.

“What is this tradition of yours? I had no idea the KGB were so generous.”

 _This again,_ Solo sighs, inwardly. The familiar push and retreat, where the tiny German eagle pecked at the big Russian bear, until something got broken.

He glances covertly around him: such fragile looking tables and chairs, and the long trestle, with its proud burden of sparkling glassware. If he could shepherd them towards the kitchen, perhaps it might be saved. But then, there was the crockery to think of, not to mention the pans of boiling pasta –

“It is _Russian_ tradition” says Kuryakin, quietly.

Solo’s attention snaps back to his own table; the set of Gaby’s shoulders shifts from _combative_ to merely _alert_.

Kuryakin had started making that distinction in Turkey. Maybe even before, but then Solo had been too busy listening to himself in Rome. _Russian_ , not _KGB._ Even just a month into their new lives, and Solo knows better than to assume this is just the Russian’s naturally precise nature. It says something, without anything actually being said – the insistence in observing these little distinctions, when he and Gaby would easily sweep their hands and generalise.

They wait for him to explain.

“In Russia, it is tradition to provide food for guests, to celebrate birthday.”

They stare at him.

“The twenty-fifth” says Solo, at length. He had known that – he had pulled the file, after all. It just hadn’t seemed worth remembering. The birthday of a man who had, in a fit of pique, ripped a door off his car.

“Yes” Kuryakin allows, with a small nod, as though dispensing a precious secret. He shoots a nervous glance at Gaby, who has shifted again, from _alert_ to _statue_.

Solo discreetly prods her leg with his foot, under the table.

“Happy birthday” she says, in a startled rush, as if she’s been live-wired. Solo shivers, reflexively.

“Thank you” Peril gives her a small, blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile.

Solo doesn’t miss it, and neither does Gaby, who blushes furiously and begins industriously refilling her glass.

“Well then, a toast. To The Red Peril – many happy returns.”

Solo raises his glass, and smilingly holds the Russian’s gaze. Kuryakin looks as if he might smile again, but thinks better of it at the last moment, and merely doesn’t frown, which is still progress where they are concerned. Besides, while fond of himself, even Solo can admit that he doesn’t have Gaby’s attractions. 

“To Illya” says Gaby, and beams at them both.

~

_Santiago, 1965_

It starts with her hand on his skin, under the blankets.

Mapping the familiar shapes of his shoulder, his arm, his wrist. Reminding herself of the fine golden hairs on his forearm, and the faint, but discernible lines of scars on the back of his hand.

The blankets in this hotel are good – thick and cosy, good for bunching around you and keeping you warm. Gaby likes them immensely, has them bundled around her even now.

It is winter; it is July. Gaby’s hands are cold; Illya’s are warm. Everything is topsy-turvy, here on the other side of the world.

“Make me warm” she demands, in a whisper. He is awake, she knows it. He is always awake. Not once, has she caught him sleeping.

“Akh, ya byl prav”, he says, without opening his eyes: _Ah, I was right._ Even drowsy, he is committed to her Russian lessons.

She swats him on the shoulder.

 _Smugness is unattractive in a lover,_ she replies, in German: _“_ Schadenfreude ist bei einem liebhaber unattraktiv.” The meaning is sharper in German than in English, and she hasn’t the Russian for it.

“Also, ich bin jetzt dein liebhaber?” he says with a smirk, eyes still closed. _Ah, so I am your lover now?_

“Ja” she says, and kisses him.

When she leans back, just a fraction, he has opened his eyes.

 _Blonde over blue – there’s a song in that_ , she thinks.

“I said you would be cold” Illya persists.

“I should have wrapped myself up, you think, hmm?”

“Yes” he says, although without any real conviction.

Gaby feigns great philosophical consideration of the matter for all of five seconds.

“But then, I couldn’t do this.”

She shifts across the sheets, rolls into him. Hooks one leg over his, her arm curving around his back, hand sneaking up into in his hair. He huffs a breath into her neck, hand on the curve of her spine, pressing her closer. He is very warm, and deliciously naked.

As is she.  Gaby smiles, delighted – her turn to be smug – and wriggles promisingly, as if making herself comfortable.

Illya’s hand tightens on her waist: he mutters something in thick Russian into her hair.

“Make me warm” she says again, against his ear, and he shivers.

“You make many demands” he says, a token protest: she can feel his arousal pressed against her thigh.

“Mein liebling liebhaber” she coos, playful, and kisses his temple. Drags her fingers against his scalp.

“Ty budesh' moyey smert'yu” he rumbles – _you will be the death of me_ – and rolls her over.

Blankets are all very well, in their way, Gaby supposes. But she prefers her Illya, sleep-soft and skin-hot, his weight carefully balanced and just pressing her into the mattress.

Besides, could soft hotel blankets disassemble, re-assemble and operate a custom Walther GSP, with both deadly and life-saving accuracy? She rather thinks not.

He is multipurpose, this _liebhaber_ of hers.

She wraps her arms up around his shoulders, kisses his cheek.

“That’s better.”

“I think you are lying about being cold” he mutters, against her jaw.

“I think you are making a lot of fuss” she leans up, kisses his cheek again. Her fingertips trace patterns on his back, and she tries to coax him down closer to her with light pressure of her hands. Even now, he is still being careful with her when he doesn’t need to be.

She shifts one leg, easing his hips to fit against her own – she hums, pleased, and nips at his ear – Illya makes a soft, almost inaudible little sound into the crook of her neck.

“Blizhe” she murmurs, curving her spine to meet him, palms flat against his skin, “potseluy menya.”

“Your Russian is very limited” he mumbles; she can feel his heart rate rising, the rhythm tantalisingly close against her chest.

“I know all the essentials. Potseluy menya, Illya.”

Finally, _finally_ , he does, his mouth plush and warm, and she is reminded afresh how much she loves kissing Illya, how it makes her giddy and breathless and grounded all at once. He belongs to so many other people – to Mother Russia, to Waverley, to the KGB. But when he is kissing her, he is hers – _Gaby’s_ – and nobody else’s.

He tilts his head, angles his mouth against hers, kissing her _more_ , urgent and hungry. She ought to breathe but maybe she could learn to do without it. One large, warm hand curves around her head, fingers threading into her hair.

She wonders if he feels the same, in these moments. _His_ , _Illya’s_.

She shivers, sparks in her stomach and lower. Shifting her leg higher, she leans her thigh over, squeezing his hip, letting him sink closer to her.

That noise again: a broken sound from the back of his throat. He drops his head to her neck, her shoulders.

“Ya tebya khochu” Gaby says, in case this isn’t clear. Sometimes he seems to wait for more unequivocal encouragement. She knows the Russian for both more and less delicate phrases, but she hasn’t time to say them.

“Ya tozhe tebya khochu” he says, and kisses her again.

Later, a while later, when the daylight is stronger, and her breath is once more even and steady, she nuzzles against his throat, and whispers “Happy birthday, Illya” into his skin.

Illya huffs – an almost-laugh – against the crown of her head.

“Are you my birthday present, little chop shop girl?”

“Did you like it?” Gaby says, teasing.

The arm around her squeezes, gently.

“I like you very much.”

Gaby’s heart is, without warning, lodged in her throat. Illya’s face, half obscured by the pillow, is serious. She opens her mouth, and what comes out is:

“Your real present is in Napoleon’s suitcase.”

~

_London, 1971_

Solo raps smartly on the door, stands eager on the step. _What a surprise this will be for them_ , he thinks, gleefully. He hasn’t seen them since the happy day.

He half hopes he’s interrupting something.

The door opens to reveal Kuryakin.

“Cowboy” he says, bemused, surprised: settling on pleased.

“Peril” says Solo, radiating mischievous glee from all possible angles.

The Russian clearly thinks he’s forgotten.

Peril stands aside, and Solo takes his first steps into an unfamiliar house. There are still boxes in the hallway – neatly labelled in Illya’s precise, blocky script. The lounge is more home-like, more put together – a mixture of familiar things he recognises, blended together with some new additions. Solo is pleased to see the hideous lamp he bought them has survived the crossing.

“It is good to see you” says Peril, cautiously. Love has made him slow on the uptake, clearly.

“Isn’t it?” Solo quips, still grinning.

“Wer ist das, dorogaya ?” Gaby calls, appearing from a back room, drying her hands on a tea towel that says ‘From Russia With Love’, with a picture of Sean Connery, and abruptly Solo’s train of thought derails entirely.

“ _Was_ ist das?” he points at the incredible, wonderful addition to the Kuryakin household, and then remembers himself: “Entschuldigung, _was_ ist das, Frau Kuryakin?”

Gaby drops the tea towel, squeals, and throws her arms around him.

 

 

They talk, and Solo makes round after round of increasingly overt sexual innuendos centred on the recent honeymoon, until Illya finally snaps and asks him what on earth he’s doing, in London, in their front room –

“ – with that trizhdy proklyatyy toy car outside.”

Solo spreads his hands, innocent and yet frankly unable to hide his pleasure at getting one over on The Red Peril.

“You owe me dinner.”

Illya stares at him. Gaby folds her bottom lip under teeth, cackles and then goes into the kitchen snorting laughter. Solo stares after her, confused.

“You are terrible agent, cowboy.”

“But it’s your birthday: the twenty-fifth. Time for great Russian tradition of buying American spies expensive dinners.”

Illya sits back, folds his arms, insufferable smirk on his face.

“If you had done proper research, you would know is _also_ great Russian tradition not to celebrate fortieth birthday.”

Napoleon also sits back. From the kitchen he can still hear Gaby cackling like a crone three times her age. Illya smirks at him, crinkling the lines at his eyes.  To Solo’s great annoyance, the Russian shows no sign of losing his hair, or of getting any smaller. He had no idea code-breaking was such a physical job.

“Why do you have a James Bond tea towel?” he asks, which is surely the real issue they should all be discussing.

Illya shrugs, nonchalant, as if it is nothing to him either way whether he has such a tea towel or doesn’t.

(Gaby will tell him later, in hushed tones, that she has had to rescue it from a terrible death on three separate occasions, and has threatened to have it framed.)

“Is gift.”

They share friends, what friends they have. None of these friends have recently died in mysterious circumstances, to his knowledge. Unusual in itself, given their line of work.

But no, no one has been shot from a vantage point on a tall building, discreetly stabbed or suddenly disappeared.

“From who?”

“It was a wedding present” says Gaby, returning with coffee “from Waverley.”

“Of course it was.”

~

_New York, 1963_

Solo hails a taxi, and opens the door for Peril to fold himself into the back of it, followed by Gaby’s elegant dip and shuffle. As he swings the door shut, he looks across the yellow roof of the taxi and sees a car.

Curved hood, sweeping, elegant lines.

Solo watches it pass.

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea when I started writing this that the good people of Russia had cornered the market in interesting birthday traditions:  
> \- It is bad luck to celebrate before your birthday, as the tradition goes that if you celebrate too early you may not survive until your actual birthday.  
> \- Assuming you make it there alive, it’s your job to feed and entertain everyone: party time!  
> \- If you survive a life threatening event, you might celebrate that date as a ‘second birthday’.  
> \- And finally – in line with a Christian tradition that associates the number forty with death, an older Russian tradition was not to celebrate the fortieth birthday. 
> 
> I’d be interested to know how closely observed these are – my view is that Illya is very traditional, especially if it means he gets out to put one over on Napoleon…
> 
> Why are Gaby, Illya (and Napoleon) in Chile? To be revealed.
> 
> Cyrillic, or not to Cyrillic? That is the question. I realised while writing this and comparing back to Napoleon buys a new car that the Latin script does make it easier to ‘hear’ what Illya and Gaby are saying if you (like me) are a native English speaker / or Latin script reader – even if you don’t understand the Russian.  
> #thingswritersworryabout #thesearethebigquestions


End file.
